Chapter 21—Visitor

The Arkantez lodging had never felt so quiet. After the summons, after the crushing weight of the Council’s decree, the house carried the silence of a place that had just endured a storm yet knew another was already building on the horizon.

Raiden sat by the window in the common room, the summons folded neatly but pressed flat beneath his hand, as though his palm could keep it from spreading further trouble. The lamp beside him hummed faintly—a slender crystal filament suspended in glass, pulsing with restrained mana that glowed soft amber. Outside, the city lamps along the cobbles burned in the same magitech rhythm, a heartbeat of light against the silver wash of moon.

Ledios had spoken briefly on their return. His words were blunt, practical, the kind of reassurance that wasn’t reassurance at all: You stood, and you’ll stand again. One month hence, we prepare. Then he excused himself, retreating to his study where a quill-pen etched notes on its own across parchment at his gesture.

Randall and Tadari had lingered longer, pacing the floor with the restlessness of men who would rather face blades than whispers. The floor itself was lined with Arkantez-forged tiles, veins of faint blue running through stone to distribute warmth from the hearth. Finally, the two left for their dorms, muttering about sharpening weapons they weren’t allowed to bring into Court Duel.

Now only Raiden remained awake. The fire in the hearth wasn’t fire at all, but a cluster of red-gem cores locked inside iron latticework, shimmering with controlled flame that gave heat without smoke. It crackled when mana surged through, like logs snapping, though no wood burned. Normally the sound reassured him—Arkantez craft was reliable, strong—but tonight it only reminded him that he was a guest inside someone else’s fortress, waiting for judgment.

A gentle knock drew him from his thoughts. The door eased open without waiting for reply.

Ophelin entered, leaning on her walking stick. She wore a loose robe rather than her usual layered garb, and the lamplight caught the tiredness in her eyes. But Raiden noticed something else—the faint surety in her step, the way her grip on the stick was less desperate than even a few days ago.

“You should be lying down,” Raiden said. His voice came out harsher than intended.

She answered with a snort. “And you should be sleeping. Neither of us is very good at advice tonight.”

He almost smiled, then gestured toward the seat across from him. She lowered herself carefully, setting the walking stick against the table. For a long moment, the only sound was the hearth’s mana-crackle and the steady hum of the wall conduits channeling energy through the house.

“They cornered us well today,” Ophelin said finally. Her tone was measured, but the steel beneath it was clear. “Falden twisted the words as if he’d forged them himself. He made me stumble. I hate that.”

Raiden shook his head. “You stood. That was enough.”

Her jaw tightened. “Enough? It wasn’t. My testimony should have been a shield. Instead, it was a gap for them to drive spears through.”

Raiden let the silence answer. He wanted to tell her that no one else could have stood straighter, that the whole hall seemed to tilt against them regardless of her words—but he knew she wouldn’t accept comfort.

Ophelin shifted slightly, wincing as she stretched her leg. Then her gaze softened, something uncharacteristic in her expression. “You know, don’t you? That the duel is their way of washing their hands. No matter what happens, they’ll claim honor is satisfied.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll fight him.”

“I’ll fight him.”

She nodded, as though confirming a truth she had already decided. “Then we’ll make sure you don’t fight blind.”

Raiden raised a brow. “Your leg—”

“Is healing faster than it should.” She cut across him, her voice low but steady. “I don’t know why. I shouldn’t even be walking properly yet, but the pain fades each day. I can spar again soon. And until then, I’ll drill you from the bench if I must.”

Raiden studied her. There was no pride in her tone, only certainty. He didn’t mention the flicker of suspicion that crossed his mind—that perhaps his blood had played some unseen role. Instead, he inclined his head. “Then I’ll take every lesson.”

Their exchange ended when another knock sounded, firmer this time. The door opened, and Einfried Zoven entered. His armor was absent, replaced by a simple tunic and cloak, though the knight carried himself as if he never shed steel. The conduits along the hallway glowed faintly behind him, tracing pale gold lines through the stone like veins of light.

“I should have spoken sooner,” Einfried said, stepping into the room. He glanced briefly at Ophelin, then fixed his gaze on Raiden. “But I’ll speak now. You will not walk alone into this duel. If my father’s House cannot act, then I will. I’ll stand with you.”

Raiden blinked. “You would fight in my place?”

Einfried shook his head. “That is not permitted. Court Combat is bound to the accused and accuser. But protection comes in more than blades. I’ll arrange for oversight, ensure the field is guarded against interference. And—” his tone softened, almost regretful “—I will train you. What little time we have, I will give it.”

Raiden found words slow to rise. “Why? You owe me nothing.”

The knight’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Because Ophelin believes you worth it. Because I saw the Council’s faces today, and I know injustice when it struts in robes. And because I would rather forge a blade than watch one rust.”

Ophelin gave a rare approving grunt. “Took you long enough to say it.”

Einfried ignored her, drawing a folded letter from his cloak. “I’ll need to make arrangements. But tomorrow, we begin. Steel will answer steel, Raiden. You must be ready.”

Raiden accepted the weight of the words with a nod. For the first time that night, something steadier than dread settled in his chest. Not hope, not yet—but direction.

When Einfried left, Ophelin lingered only a few breaths longer before rising. She caught her walking stick, tested her leg again, then met Raiden’s gaze. “Sleep. Tomorrow, they’ll carve at you until you break, unless you harden first.”

He almost laughed at the brusqueness, but instead, he said simply, “Thank you.”

Ophelin’s expression softened again, just a flicker. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then she was gone, leaving Raiden with the hum of the magitech lamps, the faint glow of conduits under stone, and the folded summons still on the table. He stared at it once more, then pushed it aside. Tomorrow, the true preparation would begin.

But that night, as he finally stretched on his cot, his thoughts lingered on the faces: Falden’s gleam, Garid’s smirk, Yuka Olwen’s silent eyes. And above them all, the Archmagister’s decree ringing in his head.

One month. One month to turn prey into predator. One month to shape silence into steel.